


Old Friends

by TheExclamation



Series: The Trade [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:29:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheExclamation/pseuds/TheExclamation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-powered AU in which several of our beloved MCU characters have formed a Kidnap & Ransom company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Friends

            It was going to go south.

            Coulson was keeping a close eye on the three guys walking toward him. He'd been doing this sort of thing a long time; he knew how to recognise most kinds of nervous.

            These guys were the wrong kind of nervous.

            It was a simple exchange: He'd brought the money, and was supposed to leave with the hostage.

            Except everyone was armed. And they didn't like each other.

            Everybody got some kind of nervous, except for the headcases. That was normal, even smart: You never knew what the other guy was planning.

            Unless you'd been doing this long enough that you could figure it out based on certain behaviour, and the other side wasn't doing a good job of hiding that behaviour.

            "This is going to go south, boys."

            Romanoff's voice in his earpiece. She wouldn't break radio silence just to vent her nerves; this was an assessment.

            "I know."

            She was somewhere North of him, deep within their camp, sneaking toward the shed where they were keeping their prisoner. Whatever she saw them doing or heard them saying, it was enough to confirm that they weren't planning to hold up their end of the bargain.

            There would be shooting. And many of them would die.

            But Coulson wasn't going to be the one to initiate it.

 

Five days ago:

            The mother, after Coulson explained the basics:

            "Will you get him back?"

            "I can't make any guarantees, Ma'am. But they're going to keep your son alive, because they want the money."

            "But what if they get the money, and kill him anyway?"

            "We'll be there to stop them."

            "You mean you'll... ?"

            "We'll respond appropriately."

 

            Barton reported next.

            "Coulson, I've got someone moving to outflank you through the A."

            "Can you track him the whole way?"

            "Absolutely. He's only worried about hiding from _you_."

            "He's first."

            "You got it."

            Amateurs. It never occurred to them that Coulson might have brought friends: Romanoff behind them, Barton in an overlook position outside their camp to the West, and somewhere just inside, to the East, on Coulson's right...

            "Boss? You in position?"

            "Affirmative," Fury said. "I've got a choice between the two guys standing together in 2C and some propane tanks at their seven."

            "Start with the distraction. These guys are cocky; let's give them some humility."

            "Copy that." With that characteristic cheerful snarl of his. He enjoyed bestowing humility on people who really needed it.

            He was armed with explosive rounds. They deliver a lot of humility.

            And the three guys approaching Coulson definitely needed it. They were swaggering, enjoying a private joke.

            Have you heard the one about the credulous fool we doublecrossed?

 

Two years ago:

            "I want to propose a new system for calling the plays."

            He spread the grid out on the table. Four by four, numbers across, letters down.

            "I'm the dot in the middle, facing the top of the page. The squares are a hundred meters each side."

            He gave them the time they needed to think it over, see if there were any holes.

            Finally, Fury said, "Looks good, Cheese." The other two nodded.

            "I got it from the way some curlers call their shots."

            Barton, incredulous: "Curling?"

            "I like curling."

            "You _sure_ you're not Canadian?"

 

            He'd proposed the grid to account for the fact that he'd almost never be standing in perfect North-facing orientation.

            In fact, today was the first time in two years that he was.

            Yet another way these amateurs had the odds stacked against them.

            Coulson had been polite with them over the phone. Firm, but soft-spoken and articulate. Never raised his voice once.

            Standing in front of the kidnappers now, he was exactly what they'd been expecting.

            Crisply-pressed suit, monochrome tie knotted impeccably.

            Polished black shoes, laughably inappropriate for the muddy ground of this fenced-in forest clearing.

            Middle aged. Balding.

            Of _course_ they were feeling confident.

            People like this always underestimated him.

            First tip they'd missed, dead giveaway: His jacket was unbuttoned.

            Pros would have understood that, and expected it, since they were armed, too.

            These guys thought the outfit pegged him for a wimp, and overlooked the most important detail, the one that didn't fit.

            They were so incompetent he almost felt sorry for them.

            But they'd brought this on themselves; they'd victimised innocent people.

            Coulson and his team were far from innocent.

            But that just made them more committed to helping those who were.

            He dropped his duffel bag.

            The kidnappers had asked for a _lot_ of money, in small bills.

            Coulson flexed his left arm, which had been carrying the bag.

            The three guys smiled.

            Such a heavy bag had obviously been too much for the wimp.

            He wanted to pick it up and hurl it at them, but that was just vanity.

            Besides, their opinion of him was about to change anyway.

            They'd arrived. The one in the middle stared directly into Coulson's eyes, trying to assert his dominance. The one on Coulson's left lit a cigarette, to show what a badass he was.

            The one on the right didn't do anything. He was impatient to slip the gun off his shoulder and start shooting. Until he was given permission for that, he didn't know what to do with himself.

            He was wearing reflective aviator glasses, even though the sky was overcast.

            Alpha smiled, showing a lot of teeth.

            "Is it all there?"

            "We can go somewhere and count it."

            "No, I trust you."

            See how superior I am? I _know_ you followed my instructions perfectly, because you were too intimidated to do anything else.

            Cigarette blew smoke into Coulson's face. Original.

            Shades started chuckling, but it seemed a little forced once he noticed Coulson not reacting at all.

            "Is this your first kidnapping?"

            Coulson didn't actually say it, but he was badly tempted.

            Alpha continued staring into his eyes, still wearing that cocky smile.

            This was the point in the script where the naïve fool with the money was supposed to ask the kidnapper if he could have the hostage.

            Lots of people were going to be disappointed today.

 

Two hours ago:

            "What do you think, Cheese?"

            "They're fanatical and stupid. I think that once they get the money, they're planning to kill the son anyway to make a statement."

            "Are they gonna try and shoot _you_ , too?"

            "Depends how much of a statement they want to make."

 

One hour and forty-five minutes later:

            "Clint? Are you in position?"

            "You bet. And it's a really good one, too. Someone's already put a camera up here."

            "Security?"

            "If so, it's the only one I've seen."

            And he would have seen others, if they'd been there to see.

            "Also it's got a battery and a transmitter. I don't think it's sending its signal to the camp."

            Not security.

            Surveillance.

            Something to think about, later.

            "Okay. I'm going to make the call."

            "Copy that."

            Coulson took out his cell and hit redial.

            "Who is this?"

            "I'm inside the forest, ten minutes away from your camp."

            "Bullshit. We've got people watching the road. You haven't been past."

            "I didn't take the road."

            "I warned you - "

            "I've been following your instructions to the letter, and you _never_ specified I had to take the road."

            ...

            "Your people watching, is one of them a kid in his early twenties, with a tattoo of an eagle on the back of his shaved head?"

            "Yeah."

            "So you know I'm here. Now I want to talk to the hostage."

            "He's fine."

            "No offense, but most of the kidnappers I've known haven't been as trustworthy as you."

            "Hold on a second."

 

Two minutes after that:

            The man wearing green camo pants and a brown leather jacket came back out of the shed, pocketing his cell phone.

            He said something to the guard as he walked away.

            Barton readied his rifle.

            The guard locked the shed.

            Barton lowered the rifle, and spoke into his throat mic.

            "Nat? The prisoner is being held in a storage shed, 2C from the front gate. Padlock, one guard."

            "On my way."

            "Coulson. The guy you've been talking to on the phone is wearing green camo pants... "

 

            Alpha took a step back, reaching into his brown leather jacket.

            His gun was halfway out when Coulson shot him twice in the chest.

            A loud crack announced Barton neutralising the outflanker.

            Cigarette and Shades tried to unsling their rifles.

            "Stop!" Coulson shouted.

            They didn't; Coulson made them.

            Everywhere in the camp, people started shouting.

            Their voices were drowned out by the sound of the propane tanks exploding.

            The man guarding the prisoner turned and started working the padlock on the door. As soon as he had it open, Barton punched a bullet between his shoulder blades. The guard smacked into the shed, bounced off, and toppled sideways.

            "All clear, Nat."

            "Thanks, Clint."

            She ran toward the shed, a gun in each hand.

            Nobody got in her way; they were looking out for the threats they knew about.

            They did start noticing when they heard shots behind them and their comrades began falling face-forward.

            Some tried to return fire. They died next.

            Those remaining took cover and stayed the hell out of her way.

            The two guys closest to the propane tank fire finally pulled themselves together. One of them saw Fury step out from behind a jeep, and shouted a warning to his buddy.

            Fury fired his next grenade into that guy, blowing him to smithereens. The one beside him was torn to ribbons by the shrapnel.

            Meanwhile Coulson had just finished hotwiring a pickup truck.

            "How close are you, Nat?"

            "Just there," she said, ducking low and entering the shed.

            There was only one occupant, cowering in a corner.

            Romanoff moved to him carefully, not wanting to spook the poor kid any further.

            "Bryan? My name is Nat. Your parents sent us. We're here to rescue you."

            Bryan nodded.

            "Are you hurt?"

            Bryan shook his head.

            "Can you run? Answer with words this time."

            "I can run."

            Twenty-one years old. Doing well for his first kidnapping.

            "Three converging on your position, Nat!"

            Romanoff crouched and put herself between the kid and the door.

            Barton's gun barked; something hit the wall outside.

            The other two appeared in the doorway.

            Romanoff put three bullets into each of them.

            "All clear," said Barton.

            Driving his new pickup to the prisoner shed, Coulson saw three of the enemy with assault rifles taking cover behind a stack of pallets.

            They spotted Coulson and trained their guns on him.

            But Fury had seen them first. He fired.

            They dispersed.

            Coulson stopped in front of the shed. Romanoff stepped out, gun first, her other arm around the prisoner.

            Two men rounded the corner of a building. She shot one; Barton got the other.

            Romanoff helped Bryan climb into the bed of the truck, then she followed.

            Two more guys, different building.

            Barton and Coulson this time.

            Over on the left a jeep holding four men appeared, speeding toward them.

            "Nick - 2C!"

            "No visual!"

            "I got it," said Barton, and once again there was a crack from his position.

            The driver's chest erupted, and the jeep veered off to the side, passing out of sight behind a building.

            "Oh, _there_ you are," said Fury.

            From the direction the jeep had gone, something exploded.

            Romanoff banged on the side of the pickup; she and the prisoner were secure.

            Coulson hit the gas.

            "Coming to you, Nick."

            "3B."

            Coulson drove down the centre of the camp, passing the burning jeep on his left.

            Fury approached from the right. Coulson slowed the pickup and opened the passenger door. Fury hopped in, and Coulson hit the gas again.

            Just before the gate, he stopped long enough for Fury to reach out and grab the duffel.

            Three heads popped out of hiding. Romanoff got the two on the left of the pickup; Barton took out the one on the right.

            Seventeen seconds later Coulson and his team were out, with the former hostage safe and unharmed.

 

            Five hours after that, they were in the local offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

            In separate rooms.

            "What the fuck were you thinking?"

            "I don't remember exactly," said Fury, more calmly, equally indignantly, and with much more contempt. "There was a lot going on. I _might_ have been thinking that an innocent young man had been kidnapped, and his family were going out of their minds worrying about him."

            "Your connections aren't going to get you out of this."

            "My 'connections'? _What_ connections?"

            "The Agency. I've seen your file."

            "Huh. Well, if you think _those_ connections are going to help _me_ , you might have seen my file, but you sure didn't _read_ it."

 

Six years ago:

            "Have you read his after-action report?"

            "Whose?"

            "Your agent."

            "I presume you mean Phil Coulson."

            "I am not in the habit of receiving paperwork from my subordinates in which command decisions are described as being 'motivated by impetuous bloodlust'."

            "Then I guess most of the people under you don't have Phil's vocabulary."

            "You will order him to rewrite his report."

            "I will do no such thing. The report is one hundred percent factual."

            "I put up with your shit, Fury, because of your friend upstairs. But don't think that makes you invincible. And as for your pet agent, he has no protection at all."

            "I've never known him to need any."

            "He does now. His name's on my shit list, right below yours."

            "I'll be sure to pass that on. He'll be proud to hear it."

            "Don't make me angry, Fury."

            "I'm not afraid of your anger, Director."

            "You should be. You think you and Coulson are some kind of badasses? The two of you, your anger _combined_ means _nothing_ compared to the hell I can unleash on the two of you with mine."

            "Oh, Coulson doesn't _get_ angry, Director. _I_ get angry. Coulson gets _much_ worse than that."

 

Three weeks later:

            "No."

            "I beg your pardon?"

            "With respect, Sir, I am refusing the mission."

            "Agent Coulson, you do not have the luxury of refusing."

            Coulson stared at the Director for a few moments.

            The ice was very thin.

            "Well, Agent?"

            "Sir, he's fifteen years old. The only rendering anybody should be doing of him is for his high school yearbook."

            He could almost hear it cracking.

            "You have until end of day to remember who you work for. Or you don't any more."

            Coulson stood up and left the conference room without once looking in the other man's direction.

            He walked straight to Fury's office.

            He had a feeling he was expected.

            Fury confirmed this when he walked in, by wordlessly motioning for Coulson to close the door behind him, which he did without turning.

            "I was just given an assignment."

            "I figured as much."

            "Why weren't you there?"

            "I told him you weren't going to do it."

            "That I was going to refuse?"

            "That you weren't going to do it, because _I_ was never going to ask you to."

            "So he cut you out."

            "He seems to be under the impression that we don't respect his authority. I wonder whatever gave him that idea."

            Coulson didn't say anything, even though it was his turn.

            So Fury went again.

            "How bad is it?"

            "I have until end of day to put up or pack up."

            Fury nodded, slowly.

            "Wait until after two, so he won't get suspicious about how quickly you came around. Then tell him you'll do it."

            "Boss?"

            "Trust me."

            Coulson digested that for a moment, then nodded.

            He turned to open the door, but something hit him. He turned back around.

            "When did we become the bad guys?"

            Fury didn't answer that.

            There was an easy answer, but it was incomplete.

            They weren't the bad guys.

            But their country did have PTSD.

            And no matter how much you feel for a comrade or friend with PTSD, you can only trust him so far.

            Coulson waited until he was sure Fury didn't have an answer for him.

            Then he left.

 

Five days later:

            "Nate! You don't usually condescend to walk down here among the peons. Come on in."

            Fury opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removing the traditional contents.

            "Want a drink?"

            It was nine-fifteen in the morning.

            "Sure."

            Fury poured enough so that neither of them would want seconds, then he handed one glass over to his old friend Nathan Bishop.

            The man who'd recruited him.

            Bishop wasn't the kind of man who started talking business before the first sip, so he didn't. But right after that, he said:

            "That was bad luck for Coulson, his target disappearing like that, before he even got to town."

            "These kids today. They're unpredictable."

            "Your boss thinks maybe someone tipped him off."

            "That's a serious accusation."

            "It is. Because if someone _did_ tip him off, that might be considered treason."

            "Assuming, of course, that the fifteen-year old boy in question _was_ in fact a legitimate enemy of the state."

            Bishop shrugged. "It's the thought that counts."

            Fury had a sip of his drink, and waited.

            "The Director's going to follow up, of course. And we both know he's not going to find anything. But it doesn't matter; this isn't really about the kid."

            Fury had another sip.

            He wanted to say something, so his friend wouldn't have to play this solo, but there was nothing to say.

            He'd just made a discovery.

            Nate looked at his drink, nodding to himself. Then he looked up.

            "I was going to warn you, that all it's going to take is one more thing and you're finished in the Agency... but I can see that in your mind it's already happened."

            And there it was.

 

Not too long after that:

            Fury put the banker's box down beside his desk and began opening the drawers.

            Starting with the bottom one.

            Then he realised there wasn't anything else in that damn office he wanted to take with him.

            When Coulson arrived, Fury was sitting with his feet up on a bookshelf.

            Coulson's drink was waiting on the desk.

            He picked it up.

            He almost forgot to have a sip before speaking.

            That's when Fury realised how upset he really was.

            He motioned for Coulson to sit.

            His friend took another sip, then complied. Reluctantly.

            "He can't do this to you."

            "Probably not this time. But maybe next time. And definitely the time after that."

            "So before that happens, _we_ can get rid of _him_."

            "No we can't. And even if we could... "

            Coulson looked away. He didn't like losing.

            But there was nothing left worth winning anyway.

            "I'll quit. They'll know why."

            "Not yet. Give me a few months to set things up. Then when you leave, they'll still know why, but you'll have somewhere to go."

            Coulson smiled; Fury was happy to see it.

            "I should have known you'd have a plan, Boss."

            "It's not my plan. It's someone else's."

            "Whose?"

            "An old friend."

 

Ten years earlier - Somalia:

            "Nick? Are you awake?"

            "Cheese? Is that you?"

            "Yeah, Colonel. I'm here."

            "I didn't realise I was allowed to have visitors yet."

            "You're not."

            Fury chuckled. His throat sounded very dry.

            Coulson poured him some water. "Here."

            Fury reached out, and got it on the third try.

            "Is it dark in here, or am I still blind?"

            "The overhead lights are off."

            "What time is it?"

            "Oh-three-hundred."

            One hour before the next shift change.

            "Are the people outside feeling a little tired?"

            "They were less alert than usual when I snuck past them, yeah."

            Fury chuckled again.

            Took another sip of water.

            "You want to hear about it?"

            "Only if you want to tell it."

            "I knew the eye was gone as soon as it happened. I was unconscious before I hit the ground, so I didn't feel my leg break. That was lucky, I guess. I'm also lucky nothing got in and shredded my brain. Aunt Vi always said I had a hard head."

            "Was it... fast, for the others?"

            "Instan-fucking-taneous."

            He was about to say more, but stopped.

            Coulson gave him the time he needed.

            "I was driving; Steve was beside me. It came in from his side, so he saw it first. He only had time to shove me out. I don't know if the others saw it or not."

            Coulson was about to say, "I hope not," but then he reconsidered.

            Would _he_ want to know? Maybe.

            Steve had known.

 

Two weeks later:

            "Sorry it's been so long."

            "That's okay. I expect things went a little haywire after Mogadishu."

            "Yeah."

            Coulson's tone said more than that. A lot more.

            "Were you there?"

            "I'm not at liberty to say."

            So he'd probably been somewhere even worse.

            "Have you heard _my_ news?"

            "I hear Steve's getting a medal."

            "Silver Star."

            "You made sure of it."

            "Damn right."

            "That was nice of you. His mom'll be proud."

            Fury nodded. You take care of your people.

            And when you can't any more, you take care of their loved ones.

            Coulson pointed at Fury's crutches.

            "They tell me you're shipping out."

            "Shipping out? I am _discharged_ , my man!"

            "I'll be sorry to see you go."

            "It coulda been worse. Besides, I already had a guy come by and offer me a job."

            "Doing what?"

            "I'm not at liberty to say."

 

Eight months after that:

            "Welcome back."

            "Thanks for meeting me."

            "Least I could do for abandoning you back there."

            Coulson smiled.

            He knew that wasn't all of it.

            So Fury had to keep talking. "You got any plans for the future?"

            "I'm up in two months, but I'm not sure if I want to re-enlist."

            He was thinking of heroes, blood in the sand.

            "I might be able to offer you a job."

            "Where _you_ work?"

            "Of course."

            "Are you able to tell me what this job is, now?"

            "I work for one of those three-letter abbreviations, where the last letter stands for _Agency_."

            And of course Fury wasn't going to tell him which one.

            "Keep talking; you'll let something slip eventually."

            "Wanna bet?"

 

Nine years, three months, and two weeks later, give or take - the afternoon of Fury's departure from the Agency:

            "You're earlier than I expected."

            "What are they gonna do, fire me?"

            "What's that behind your back?"

            Coulson showed him the bottle.

            "Bon voyage, Boss."

            Expensive. Exquisite.

            "You want to crash here tonight?"

            "I was hoping you'd ask."

            Kick like a fucking mule.

            "But before I get my bag out of the car, I want to hear about your old friend and his idea."

            "Follow me into the living room."

            There was a bottle on the coffee table, and Fury's glass.

            "That's what I'm drinking at the moment. We'll save your present for after the sun goes down."

            "Sounds good."

            Fury came back from the kitchen with Coulson's glass. He filled it, high, and handed it to him.

            But Coulson barely looked at it.

            He was staring at the steamer trunk beside the couch.

            He took a short sip of his drink, without tasting it.

            "Is that whose I think it is?"

            "When Steve's mom sold her house, she called and asked me if I wanted some of his old things. She kept the Star and some of the rest of it; I got the trunk."

            Fury sat down on the side of the couch nearest the object in question, and motioned for Coulson to take the other side.

            Coulson sat.

            Fury waited.

            Coulson took a proper sip of his drink.

            Fury nodded, satisfied.

            Respect the whisky as you would the man.

            "Do you remember Steve talking about his favourite book?"

            "Of course. It was by... Dick Francis. I forget the title. Something generic."

            "And do you remember how he had this secret plan for when he got out?"

            "Who could forget? His eyes used to light up like a kid's. I kept asking him what this great idea was, but he said he'd tell me when the time came."

            That was a sobering memory.

            Coulson took something for it.

            "It turns out that the reason his eyes lit up like that is because his idea came from his favourite book."

            Fury reached over the arm of the couch and lifted a few things out of the trunk.

            He handed them to Coulson.

            A paperback copy of _The Danger_ , by Dick Francis, white cover with rough brown rope crossing it, well loved, and a couple of pages of looseleaf.

            _The Danger_.

            Coulson remembered the title, now. Steve's favourite book. He turned it over and read the back.

            "Kidnap and Ransom?"

            Fury had a sip of his drink.

            Coulson looked at the looseleaf.

            The first page was where Steve had been scribbling down, in blue ink, ideas for his company: names like _Restorers_ , _Responders_ , and _Avengers_ were crossed out, as were failed attempts to come up with suitable sequences of letters for acronyms such as _PROTECT_ , _DEFEND_ , and _AEGIS_.

            Three quarters of the way down the page, circled, was the winner:

            _SHIELD_

_Specialist Hostage Intermediaries, Extractors, Liaisons, and Defenders._

            "He always loved a good acronym."

            Coulson turned to the second page. It was a symbol, drawn in pencil crayon.

            A round shield, with a red outer ring, a white middle ring, and another red ring on the inside. The centre was blue, with a white star in the middle.

            Patriotism. It was like having Steve in the room with them.

            Almost.

            There was nothing else on the page. Steve had gotten it perfect on his first try.

            Coulson looked up at Fury.

            Who was waiting.

            "Well, we've got a name, and a logo."

            Fury nodded, taking yet another sip. Then he actually said something.

            "I'm partial to a more heraldic escutcheon myself, but... "

            He could make light of it all he wanted. They both knew this was as much for Steve as it was for them.

            "Okay," said Coulson. "Looks like we're now in the K and R business."

            "One thing I would like to change about the logo, if you don't mind."

            Coulson took a sip of his drink. He could be noncommittal with the best of them.

            "Let's make the star silver instead of white."

            "Perfect."

 

Back in the FBI offices:

            "You're supposed to inform the police when a crime has been committed."

            "The kidnappers said no police. I guess the family didn't want to take a chance."

            "But they called _you_."

            "We're civilians."

            "You had no jurisdiction in that camp."

            "We were invited. The family asked us to help, and the kidnappers told us how to get there."

            "That's not what I'm talking about! When the family called you and said there'd been a kidnapping, why didn't _you_ call _us_?"

            "I thought the family'd already done that."

            "If they _had_ called us, we'd have been on-site!"

            "Oh. Right."

 

The day after Fury's departure from the Agency, an hour after breakfast, 3pm:

            "We're going to need a lawyer."

            Fury raised his eyebrow at Coulson.

            "Unless you're expecting to be able to follow the strict letter of the law in every country we operate."

            Fury chuckled.

            "I've already got somebody in mind for that. I'm more interested in who you want on the team."

            "I know a guy."

 

Eleven years before that - Somalia:

            "They tell me you're the one who took the shots."

            "Yes, Sir."

            "That was some exemplary shooting."

            The Lieutenant shrugged. All in a day's work.

            "You saved my life."

            "It's my job, Sir."

            "To nursemaid careless Majors?"

            Barton looked at the sand.

            "Speak your mind, Lieutenant."

            Barton looked up.

            Coulson wished he'd looked up the man's record before talking to him.

            Because it was clear from the look of distrust in Barton's eyes that he was expecting, if he spoke his mind honestly to a superior officer, that he would get in shit for it.

            That's something you learn.

            But only if you have the wrong leadership.

            "Barton, I've just given you credit for saving my life. I'm not about to turn around and stab you in the back for being honest."

            He was unconvinced.

            "It would be dishonourable."

            That convinced him.

            Whatever officers Lieutenant Clinton Barton was accustomed to dealing with, they wouldn't have even been able to say the word.

            Major Phillip J. Coulson had known too many of those.

            "With respect Major," said Barton, "you weren't being careless. You based your actions on the intel of Captain Lake. If his intel had been good, you would never have been exposed."

            "But it wasn't good."

            "No, Sir."

            "Lieutenant Barton, what is your opinion of the quality of the intel provided by Captain Lake in general?"

            Barton looked him in the eye.

            And saw that, finally, he could say what had been on his mind for ages.

            "His intel is dogshit, Sir. He does half the job and then makes assumptions, but those assumptions are based on behaviour that was typical of the people who were in charge two years ago. But they're no longer making the decisions. When Captain Lake is providing the intel for a mission, I _assume_ there are pieces missing, and that's why I wasn't surprised that when you went after the propane canisters you found three guards that Lake hadn't anticipated."

            "In other words, if you'd trusted Lake's intel, I'd be dead."

            "Yes, Sir."

            "And the mission would have been a failure."

            "Without question. Sir."

            "Lieutenant Barton, I'm doing something special two weeks from now. The mission is based on intel provided by Captain Lake. I was going to ask you to provide overwatch support. But I've changed my mind."

            "Sir?"

            He thought he was being passed over. For speaking his mind.

            Coulson didn't like appearing like a dick. At least he was about to stop.

            "I've decided that I want you to go to the target site immediately, and do your own scouting for ten days. If what you observe gives me reason to believe the mission is viable, it will go forward. Otherwise, I'll reconsider."

            "Yes, Sir."

            Lieutenant Barton came back with a scouting report that completely contradicted Captain Lake's intel.

            Major Coulson noted this in his after-action report.

            Due in no small part to the intel Barton had provided, the mission the two of them wound up going on was an unqualified success.

            While they were gone, something big happened that history would remember as the Battle of Mogadishu.

            When they came back, Coulson invited Barton to his tent and they drank a toast to each and every one of the fallen comrades either of them had known personally.

            That was a long fucking night.

            For the next eight months, Coulson made sure Barton was on every single one of his missions.

            When Major Phillip J. Coulson was discharged, Clinton Barton was a Captain.

            And Captain Mark Lake had been shipped back home, to oversee a clerical office.

 

October 1st, 2001:

            "You're _quitting_? Most lifers are re-enlisting."

            "And lots of new kids are signing up, too."

            Corollary: Barton wasn't needed any more.

            Coulson noted that he was still a Captain, seven years later.

            Christ, what a waste.

            "You don't want to track down Bin Laden?"

            "I figure I have a better chance of doing that if I'm working for you."

            Coulson didn't bother asking how Barton knew he was with the Agency. Barton was one of those people who was smart enough to get a Doctorate, if there were some way to get one without writing a thesis.

            Barton had ignored Coulson calling him a lifer.

            Knowing that Coulson would notice him doing it.

            The best spies are the smart ones who don't look it.

            "Okay. As soon as your time is up, let me know."

 

Two years later:

            "There's something I want to tell you."

            "You're leaving."

            Smart. Barton had always been smart.

            "Not right away. But soon."

            "You pissed off the wrong people, didn't you?"

            "Or the right people."

            Barton smiled at that.

            It takes one to know one.

            "I don't know what's going to happen after I leave," said Coulson. "But if there's room in the plan for you, I'll let you know."

            "Is this Nick Fury's plan?"

            "Yeah."

            "Good. I've been wanting to meet him forever."

 

Three days after Fury's departure from the Agency, Coulson's house, noon:

            "Nick Fury, Clint Barton."

            They shook hands.

            An entire Mamet screenplay passed between them.

            Except that it had a happy ending.

            Well, positive, anyway.

            They approved of each other.

            "Coulson's told you the basics?"

            "Yeah. K and R. We save innocent people. Specific people, whose loved ones we actually meet."

            "Right."

            "As long as they happen to be rich."

            Fury did not look at Coulson.

            Coulson did not look away from Barton.

            "Not only because if they're rich, they can afford our fee. But also because poor people aren't worth kidnapping."

            Fury stared at Barton.

            He was right; it was a problem.

            Coulson hadn't voiced it yet, but he knew Fury felt the same way.

            "Do you have a solution?" said Fury, meaning it.

            "Yeah. Once a year, we do a contract pro bono."

            Simple. Coulson liked it.

            "Shit," Fury said. "I shoulda thought of that already."

            He held out his hand again.

            "Welcome to the team."

            Barton shook hands with him again.

            "Thanks."

            He turned to Coulson.

            "Because I can't wait to tell the fucking Agency I quit."

 

That night:

            "Okay, so we got Cheese as the point man... "

            "You sure you're okay with that, Boss?"

            Fury chuckled.

            "You think a lot of bad guys are going to want to negotiate with a bald one-eyed Black man?"

            "He's saying you look like a pushover."

            "Thanks, Clint."

            "I'm also saying Coulson won't frighten the clients away."

            "That's important."

            "Damn right."

            "Okay, so I'm the client liaison, and the negotiator."

            "I guess I'm the sniper and scout?"

            "Yep."

            "What are you doing, Boss?"

            "I've been navigating the halls of diplomacy for a long time. Too long. I want to experience the joy of blowing shit up again."

            "Heavy weapons."

            "Got just the thing in mind."

 

Five weeks later:

            "It looks like a Tommy gun," said Barton, pointing at the round cylinder on Fury's new toy.

            "This magazine holds thirty frag-12 grenades."

            "He sounds like a father showing off pictures of his newborn," Romanoff said.

            Coulson nodded. "The principle is very similar."

            "Hey," said Barton. "Let me see the serial number?"

            Fury turned the weapon to give Barton a closer look:

            EM-8007-P

            "Eight-oh-oh-seven. You know what word that looks like to me?"

 

Two weeks after that:

            "Boss?"

            "Yeah?"

            "Give 'em The Boot."

            Behind the men facing Coulson, their jeep got hit by a grenade and blew sky-high.

 

Seven weeks previous, the day Barton agreed to join SHIELD, in the evening:

            "How big a team do we want?" Barton said.

            "Four," said Fury. "You for distance, me for emergencies, Coulson for dealing with people."

            That last verb clause held all sorts of meanings.

            "And that leaves someone who can get in and out of tight places."

            Coulson and Fury tried to think of someone. They each knew a few guys, but all of them were in the Agency. There was nobody they wanted to trust.

            Barton had no such problem.

            "I know someone."

 

Roughly twenty months before that:

            "Nice shot."

            From the catwalk below, while she'd been running, eleven feet up and two hundred feet along.

            With a SIG 9mm, effective range one hundred and fifty feet.

            She'd figured that hitting her under those circumstances was impossible.

            And he'd managed to put one right into the back of her thigh.

            One shot, one hit. Pretty confident.

            The impossible shot defeated by an impossible shooter.

            Of course, if he was that good, he could have killed her if he'd wanted.

            "So. Why am I not dead?"

            No organization in the world wanted to take her alive for interrogation.

            Because every one of them was a former client.

            The man who'd shot her - American, probably - looked down at her for a long time before answering.

            "I wanted to ask you something."

            "I've got time."

            The bullet was in her muscle; she could barely stand.

            "Why does one of the top five assassins in the world interrupt a contract to save a little girl from a burning building?"

            She had nothing to lose; why not tell him?

            "I was a little girl once, too."

            "Are you saying you wouldn't have saved the kid if he was a boy?"

            "I didn't say that."

            "You're not saying much."

            "Top two."

            "What?"

            "I'm one of the top _two_ assassins in the world. At least."

            He chuckled.

            The guy was actually sharing a joke with her.

            All the times she'd imagined this moment, she'd never pictured it like this.

            He stopped chuckling. He stared into her eyes.

            She stared back.

            They did that for a long time.

            Then he said, "I think I asked you the wrong question, before."

            "If we're going to talk for a while, would you mind if I bound my leg?"

            "Go ahead."

            Shit.

            If there'd been no point to that, he'd have come clean to her about it.

            She took off her right glove, the one she'd been holding to her wound, then undid her belt - slowly! - and wrapped it tightly around her leg, covering the hole with her glove.

            "So what's your question?"

            "I think I know why you saved the girl. I want to know why you became an assassin."

            "I like the hours."

            "No, seriously."

            "The pay is good."

            "I'm trying to be honest, here."

            "I get to travel the world and meet interesting people."

            "C'mon, tell me."

            "I've always hated paying taxes."

            " _Tell me._ What have you got to lose?"

            That was a good point.

            Also, he was serious.

            He wanted to know about her.

            "It's who I am."

            "Bullshit."

            "It's all I know."

            " _That_ I believe. Why?"

            She hesitated.

            Even after all these years, after turning her back on them, she didn't want to reveal their existence.

            She'd been well trained.

            "I grew up in a specialised orphanage. Fagin by way of Stalin."

            He nodded.

            But he looked like he was trying to get his head around it.

            "So you lied to me before? You were never a little girl?"

            "I was. But not for long."

            Not for long enough.

            He was quiet for a few moments again.

            "You like the life?"

            "It's what I know."

            "Would you like to do something else?"

            "Are you offering me a _job_? I won't work for the Americans."

            "No. I can introduce you to some people you'll like. Good people."

            She saw the flicker behind his eyes as he realised what he'd just said, the way he'd contrasted the people he worked for with the concept of 'good people'.

            She gave him a crooked smile.

            "Do I have a choice?"

            He didn't like that question, didn't like being forced to say it.

            "My orders are to kill you. I haven't yet, obviously. But I can't bring you in alive, and I can't let you go back to doing what you do. So if you've got another option, I'd love to hear it."

            She took a deep breath.

            As it happened, she did have an alternative.

            She just never thought she'd ever have the chance to live it.

            "We'll fake my death. You can report your mission was successful, and the assassin will disappear forever. Then you set me up with a new identity, Canadian. I'll go live in Winnipeg or Edmonton, and be a teacher."

            Free self-defence classes on evenings and weekends for the girls at the local Orthodox church.

            "A teacher? So I guess you'll need a certificate."

            "Make it a Master's degree in Linguistics. I'm fluent in four languages - do you want to test me?"

            "I've been testing you for months. And you have at least _six_ languages."

            Months. So he'd been the one who nearly interrupted her in Athens.

            And she had more than six languages.

            Which she suspected he suspected.

            He was waiting for her answer.

            "Okay."

            "I'll need your word you won't go back to contract killing."

            "What if I discover my adopted city has a crime problem that needs fixing?"

            He shrugged; he didn't need to know.

            "Are you going to be checking up on me?"

            "Probably. Just to see how you're doing."

            "And what makes you think I'll keep my word."

            "Call it a hunch."

            "You have my word."

            "Great."

            He was genuinely relieved.

            In all the years she'd been doing this, here was the first good person she'd ever met.

            As good a time to quit as any.

            "So, any idea how we go about faking your death?"

            "Fire is a good way. Do you know of any burning buildings around here?"

 

Roughly twenty months and two days later:

            He'd been hoping to tie it up.

            He had the keener eye, but she had the sharper instincts.

            She caught him watching her house.

            Snuck up on his car and knocked on the window.

            That made it seven to five for her.

 

Two days previous:

            "A woman?"

            "You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

            "No, just working it out."

            Coulson explained for Barton:

            "Muslim countries."

            He hadn't thought of that.

            Which was why Fury was the boss.

            "It works out even. She's limited in a couple of ways, but she can walk around in plain sight with a full-body disguise."

            The other two nodded.

            "How do you know her?"

            "I met her working for the Agency. She was... freelancing."

            "She wasn't with the Agency?"

            "No, never."

            "I like her already."

            "But there is one thing."

            He paused, so Fury and Coulson would know it was a big one.

            "She has... a history."

            Fury raised his eyebrow.

            "Is it worse than ours?"

            He thought about that one very seriously.

            "Only by degree."

            They had a pretty good idea what that might mean. Especially if she'd been a 'freelancer'.

            Fury asked, "You vouch for her?"

            "Absolutely."

            Fury turned to Coulson.

            "Is he a good judge of character?"

            "Better than I am."

            "Hell! Then she's in."

 

Two days later:

            "How life's treating you?"

            She scowled at him.

            "Why are you asking me that now, all of a sudden?"

            He thought about it, and realised that no, he'd never really asked her that before.

            "I have a new job."

            "And _I_ might have one, too, if I'm interested - but you don't want to make the offer if I'm happy here."

            He shrugged. Nothing to add.

            In answer to his earlier question, she shrugged back at him.

            "I'm restless. I love what I'm doing, but I miss the rush of the old days."

            That wasn't everything. Maybe not even the most important thing.

            He stayed quiet, let her tell it her way.

            She sighed. "The kids are great - most of them - and the people are nice, the ones I work with and the ones around here. But... "

            "You keep them at arm's length."

            "I don't have anyone I can trust with my past. Nobody who would understand."

            "A friend."

            She nodded.

            "In my entire life, you're the only one I've ever had."

            He hadn't realised she thought of him that way.

            He also hadn't realised he felt the same way about her.

            "Then you should come along. You'll find out what it's like to have a friend who's never shot at you."

 

            They were a good team from the start.

            After a month of drilling, they were tight.

            They accepted their first contract.

            That was where the important learning really happened.

            The four of them did that job, and the next one, as comrades.

            During the third one, Fury emerged from his hotel one morning dressed in a gray turtleneck sweater and short black woolen beanie.

            Coulson tried to suppress a snicker.

            He was not entirely successful.

            "You got a problem, Coulson?"

            Busted, he figured he might as well commit.

            "You look like a Greek smuggler."

            "I didn't know smugglers came in any other nationality," Barton said.

            Fury turned to Romanoff.

            "Do I _really_ look like a Greek smuggler?"

            "Of course not."

            "There. You see?"

            "Would you like some pistachio nuts?"

            Coulson and Barton snickered.

            "Just for that, this is what I'm _always_ going to wear on a job."

            He laughed.

            Coulson and Barton stopped trying to hold their own back.

            Romanoff laughed with them.

            And that was it.

            They did their third job as friends.

 

Once again back in the FBI offices:

            "Is Natasha Romanoff your real name?"

            "Am I being charged with anything?"

            "I'll ask the questions. Is Natasha Romanoff your real name?"

            "Am I being charged with anything?

            "Oh, so you think you're funny?"

            "Am I being charged with anything?"

            "Jesus. _That's_ the way it's gonna be?"

            "Am I being charged with anything?"

 

            "Did the four of you _really_ take on the entire camp by yourselves?"

            "I respectfully decline to answer questions without counsel present."

            "I've had a quick look at your files, the three of you who were in the military. It sure _looks_ like you could have done it."

            Barton shrugged.

            He was getting the vibe that the Fed was impressed.

            Of course, that could be an act.

            "So, would you mind stating your name for the record?"

            "I respectfully decline to answer questions without counsel present."

            "Come on. It's only your _name_."

            Barton shrugged.

            "I already know it. What's the harm in telling me?"

            Barton chuckled.

            "What's so funny?"

            "You've read my file, right?"

            "I had a quick look at it."

            "So you know I've been trained in interrogation, giving and receiving. And 'I know it already; there's no harm in telling me' is one of the first things we learn."

            "Shit," said the Fed, and started laughing.

            Either he'd genuinely never thought of that, or he was the best actor Barton had ever seen.

            "Okay, you got me."

            The Fed stopped laughing, tried to figure out his next move.

            "It's an impressive file."

            "Thanks."

            "What made you decide to go into K and R?"

            "I respectfully decline to answer - "

            "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

 

            " _Major_ Coulson."

            "Yeah."

            "Special Forces."

            "Yeah."

            He wanted to ask more about that, but he knew he wasn't going to get any answers.

            So they stayed quiet for a bit, Coulson sitting, the other guy standing.

            After a few minutes, the Fed cracked first.

            "You've been doing this for a while?"

            "K and R?"

            "Yeah."

            "About four years."

            "So you've developed a feel for things."

            "Sure."

            "If we'd been called in, if the family had contacted the FBI... "

            "They would have killed the hostage immediately."

            "Why?"

            "They were going to anyway, to make a statement. And once the FBI got involved, the potential money wouldn't be worth the risk any more."

            The Fed thought about that for a few minutes.

            Then he changed the subject, sort of.

            "I've heard of SHIELD, you know, before today."

            "Yeah?"

            "I served with Jesse Walsh. We kept in touch after I got back home."

            Coulson nodded.

            "I wish things had turned out differently."

 

Three and a half years ago, what would otherwise have been the fourth job:

            "Thank you for taking my call, Colonel."

            "Well, you said the magic words."

            Private First Class Jesse Daniel Walsh.

            "I was wondering, Sir, is there a rescue mission planned for him?"

            "You know I can't tell you that."

            "Yes, Sir, I do. And I called you anyway."

            "I've got your file in front of me, Fury. A lot of black bars in it."

            No comment.

            "It also says you formed your own private army."

            "The regular one didn't want me any more, Sir."

            "Their loss."

            Again, Fury didn't say anything.

            The Colonel was thinking, working some things out in his mind.

            "Do you know the names Master Sergeant Gary Ivan Gordon and Sergeant First Class Randall David Shughart?"

            "Absolutely I do."

            Heroes of Mogadishu. Medal of Honor recipients. Posthumously.

            "Then I don't need to tell you how I feel about abandoning my people."

            "No, Sir, you do not." Deep breath, wade in. "But that doesn't answer my question."

            A pause while the Colonel absorbed that. He knew Fury wasn't just being a pain in the ass.

            "Walsh's family hired you."

            "They wanted to, Sir. But we told them we weren't going to deliver the ransom."

            "They want to pay."

            "They're eager to."

            The Colonel sighed.

            That, at last, answered Fury's question.

            The Army wanted to have a rescue mission planned for Walsh.

            But as yet, there wasn't one. For any number of reasons.

            "I don't suppose," said the Colonel, "you could accept their contract, and stall them on making the payment?"

            Shit.

            They didn't know where the poor bastard was being held yet.

            Fury wished he could help. But:

            "To paraphrase, Sir, you're asking whether I'd be willing to take a desperate family's money in return for promising them something I will never, ever do."

            The Colonel's pause was his apology.

            "A lot of firms like yours would have no problem with that."

            "Not like mine, Sir. Not at all. And none that you'd work for, either."

            "No."

            That was the end of the conversation, though they both stayed on the line for a minute.

            They were screwed.

            "Thank you for your time, Colonel."

            "Thank you for the call, Colonel."

            Two days later, the ransom was paid through an intermediary and the hostage was returned to his family.

            Less than three weeks after that, unable to live with the idea that his capture had put money into the hands of terrorists, Private First Class Jesse Daniel Walsh put an end to his shame by shoving his service pistol under his chin and pulling the trigger.

 

            "You know what I think, Major Coulson?"

            "No."

            "I think Jesse's family should have listened to you. I never told them, but I always thought you gave them the right advice: Wait for the Army to take care of their own. No matter what the outcome turned out to be."

            Coulson nodded.

            He knew what was coming.

            "I almost warned them he would do that. I should have warned them."

            "They wouldn't have wanted to hear it. It wouldn't have made a difference."

            "I know."

            But it would have made a difference to him.

 

            At the same time Coulson's interrogator was using him as a father confessor, and Barton's interrogator was digressing into mild hero worship, and Romanoff's interrogator was trying to play hardball but instead receiving an unflinching lesson in the application of Newton's Third Law, Fury's interrogator was still desperately clinging to the unproven tactic of being a belligerent prick.

            "You think your service record impresses me?"

            "It should."

            "We've got men here who were in Afghanistan and Iraq. I don't give a shit about any of that."

            "Must be nice to stay safe at home and dismiss the efforts of your colleagues when they were in uniform."

            "Are you expecting some General to get on the phone and order me to release you?"

            "I've got something better than that."

            "Oh, yeah? What?"

            "Her name's Maria Hill."

            A knock on the door.

            "What?" the Fed shouted in its general direction.

            "That would be her."

            The door opened. A junior Fed poked his head in.

            "Their lawyer's here."

            Fury's interrogator turned back to him.

            "A _lawyer_? You expect me to tremble at the thought of your _lawyer_?"

            "You obviously haven't met this particular lawyer."

            And suddenly Maria Hill was in the room.

            Commanding it.

            "What are the charges against my client?"

            "We're thinking of starting with - "

            "I didn't ask what you were _thinking_ of doing; I asked what the actual _charges_ were."

            "Multiple homicide."

            Hill stared the stupid bastard straight in the face.

            She knew there were no charges.

            And there wouldn't be any.

            He was just pissed, and trying to swing his dick around.

            But he had no dick to swing.

            His face changed, an admission of defeat.

            "Let's cut the crap, okay? You can't charge my client with anything, because then you'd have to admit how you knew about what happened at the camp. That place was hidden in the middle of a thousand acres of _private_ forest land. But you knew what happened there almost immediately. How is that possible?

            "It can't be because you had a surveillance camera or two pointed at the place, because in order to set up those cameras you would have had to unlawfully trespass on the landowners' property - unless of course you had a warrant from a judge, which you got turned down for two months ago.

            "So, purely hypothetically, if you _did_ have a camera on site, it would be illegal, and any information you gained from it, directly or as a result of your surveillance, would be inadmissible. Worse, you'd be in an awful lot of trouble with your superiors."

            Which explained why the Fed was so mad, and so helpless to do anything about it. SHIELD had ruined his investigation, by eliminating his targets.

            Dumbass had probably been expecting to make his name with this case, too.

            He tried to glower at her, but it lacked conviction.

            "It's your turn to speak," she told him. "Tell my client he is free to go."

            Fury shook his head in wonder.

            She was a mean, mean woman.

            When the Fed spoke, he sounded like he was confessing to the Inquisition.

            "Mister Fury, you are free to go."

            "Thank you." Fury gave the guy a break by saying it as neutrally as he could.

            Then he stood up, and he and Hill left the room.

            As soon as they were alone, she turned her anger onto him.

            Well, he'd been expecting that.

            "What did I tell you about accepting jobs on American soil?"

            "You said 'Don't'."

            "Tell me why. Prove you were listening."

            "Because there's plenty of opportunities in the rest of the world."

            "And?"

            "We don't want to piss off the Law in the country we live."

            "So from now on... ?"

            "From now on, no more jobs in the USA."

            "Thank you."

            "Unless there's a _really_ good reason."

            She stared at him.

            He stared right back.

            This time, he was on firm ground.

            "If something comes up that I think requires our attention, I will confer with you before accepting."

            She knew it would have to be important.

            "Good enough."

            In which case she would want them to do it, anyway.

            They went to find the junior Fed who'd led Hill to Fury, and got him to take them to the rooms where the other three were being held.

            "Coulson - we're out of here."

            "Good," said the other man in the room.

            "Barton? Let's go."

            "See you 'round," he said to his fan.

            "Romanoff? We're leaving."

            She didn't move.

            "Is something wrong?"

            "I think he wants to hit me."

            "Then he should thank us for saving his life. Come on."

            "Okay."

            She acted reluctant, but they all knew Romanoff didn't want to get into a fight with the Fed.

            Because that would piss off Hill.

            So she left the room, and they all left the building together.

            When they were in the parking lot, Hill said:

            "Your boss has something he'd like to tell all of you."

            "No more domestic jobs," Coulson said.

            "That's right," said Fury

            "So where _is_ our next job, Boss?" Barton asked.

            Hill handed Fury her phone.

            "Seriously?"

            "You got a call an hour ago. Press 6."

            "Who'm I calling?"

            "Pepper Potts, the CEO of Stark Industries."

            Fury pressed 6.

            "Hello?"

            "Ms. Potts, this is Nick Fury, of SHIELD."

            "Yes - Mister Fury! Thank you for returning my call so promptly."

            "What can we do for you?"

            "Tony - Mister Stark - has been taken prisoner by a terrorist group in Afghanistan!"

**Author's Note:**

> Including this one, I currently have four stories planned in this series. I have no idea when the others will come out, because I am not sure when I am going to have the time to write them. I'm kinda hoping to issue one every three months, but I know better than to make promises. Anyway, there will be at least four. Eventually. _EDIT Oct 31, 2016: As of this writing, I'd be darned surprised if I got back to this before January, making the next story February at the earliest._
> 
> The title of this series - _The Trade_ \- in addition to sounding like one of those beloved generic Dick Francis titles, comes from the article _Adventures In The Ransom Trade_ , written by William Prochnau for _Vanity Fair_. That article was also the basis for the movie _Proof Of Life_. Initially I wanted to have Steve's trunk contain both the article and a DVD of the movie, but then I realised that would be impossible, since the article was published in 1998 and the movie obviously came out later than that - and Steve died in 1993.
> 
> Otherwise, though, the timeline worked out really well. When I was figuring it out, after deciding I wanted Fury & Coulson to have been in Somalia, I just began in 1993 and moved forward, deciding on what would be a good period of time for all the things I wanted to have happen between then and the time of this story, and I came up with fifteen years. I would have preferred to set the story in 2016, but realistically that would make everyone older than I wanted. So, the story is set fifteen years after 1993, in 2008. And by the time I'd reached this decision, I already knew the story would end with Tony Stark's kidnapping, an event depicted in a film that was released in... 2008! Serendipity.
> 
> Why did I make my characters veterans of Somalia? Because I didn't want them to have been in Afghanistan or Iraq. Those conflicts carry too much political baggage, and I didn't want this story weighted down with it. Also, I have a fascination with the Battle Of Mogadishu, the honour, bravery, and sacrifice involved. And that, paradoxically, is why none of my characters were placed in that actual event. I couldn't have Steve die in the Battle, for example, because as far as I'm concerned placing a fictional character among the fatalities is disrespectful to the memory of real people who died. Nor could I have any of my living characters be there, because then I'm saying that they would have survived where others did not, a presumption which I find pretty damned insulting. Bernard Cornwell can put Richard Sharpe at Badajoz or anywhere else he wants because we don't know exactly how many men died that day, and we don't know precisely what their names are.
> 
> On a lighter note, the name Nathan Bishop comes from two Robert Redford characters, Nathan Muir in _Spy Game_ and Martin Bishop in _Sneakers_. The relationship between Coulson and Barton was inspired by the relationship between Muir and Brad Pitt's character - which is, unbelievably, Tom Bishop! - in the former film, and I figure that if you're going to have an old warhorse of a spy who's now in the upper echelons, Robert Redford would have been a great choice even before he actually _played_ one in the MCU.


End file.
